I arrived in Taiwan when I was 18, fresh out of high school and trying to navigate university life. Everything felt unfamiliar. My broken Mandarin quickly revealed what I already knew: I was not from here.
When I told people I was from Indonesia, many told me that I did not look Indonesian. This caught me off guard, not because it was cruel, but because of how casually it was said. Sometimes it came with curiosity, sometimes surprise, occasionally admiration for my “fair skin.” More often than not, the people asking meant no harm.
It is understandable. I look ethnically Chinese, yet I was born and raised in Jakarta, spoke Bahasa Indonesia more naturally than any Chinese language and always thought of myself as Indonesian.
The question stayed with me: What does an Indonesian look like? And why did my face seem to contradict the answer I gave?
For many, ethnicity and nationality are expected to match neatly. However, for Chinese- Indonesians, identity is more complicated.
Chinese-Indonesians are a minority community with a complex history. During former Indonesian president Suharto’s New Order era, public expressions of Chinese culture, language and traditions were restricted, prompting many families to avoid attention and quietly assimilate. Although I was born after that period, I grew up hearing stories from my parents about those experiences. The accounts from my grandparents, who lived through them firsthand, were even more harrowing.
Growing up, I noticed moments of hesitation around identity — the careful way older relatives spoke about ethnicity, the subtle reminder to be cautious, the awareness that looking Chinese sometimes carried assumptions. At the same time, Chinese-Indonesian culture quietly remained part of my everyday life: family meals, Lunar New Year celebrations, the few Mandarin words spoken by my grandparents.
My generation grew up in a more open Indonesia, where many of us simply saw ourselves as Indonesians first. There is gratitude in knowing things changed, but also sadness in knowing why earlier generations learned to stay quiet.
Living in Taiwan unexpectedly made me think more deeply about identity. On paper, I might appear similar to many people here. We are ethnically Chinese. Yet the similarities often stop there.
Taiwan also grapples with questions of history, ethnicity and belonging. Many people are ethnically Han Chinese yet identify strongly as Taiwanese. Living here has shown me that identity is rarely visible at first glance; it is shaped by memory, family, language, history and place. Sometimes, I find this exhausting. I look Chinese, but I am Indonesian. This is not a contradiction and I am proud of being both.
Perhaps multicultural societies become stronger not when people fit neatly into boxes, but when we learn to live together. For people like me, belonging was never about choosing one side. It was learning that home can exist in more than one place, and sometimes in the space between.
Callista Andini Tenggara is a student in the Department of International Affairs at Wenzao Ursuline University of Languages.
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